


Pickpocket

by orphan_account



Series: Shernnanigains [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, First Meeting, M/M, Young Sherlock, sexually frustrated Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:49:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is lamenting his abysmal sex-life one morning and Sherlock swoops in at the call of a crime seen. It doesn't do much for his sexual frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pickpocket

Greg Lestrade felt as though he had acquired problems as many as the lunatics in London, and most of those could be solved with a doughnut, a shag, and some sleep. All three seemed far from attainable: he'd forgotten his wallet at home in his haste to escape the near vicinity of his screeching wife and the crockery sailing his way. Sex was obviously out of question, unless he fancied a beating, and he did not, thank you very much. Don't even get him started on the psychopath. He despised the psychopath and the psychopath was on the loose and kicking up a murder storm, seemingly out to deprive Greg of his sleep and his time in the shower alone with his hand, if nothing else.

A migraine threatened to arrive at full force.He eyed the crime scene balefully and with a lingering sense of guilt. The woman lay prone across her expensively upholstery, very dead and very unaffected by the lewd quality of his thoughts, but the guilt mounted anyway– she was the fourth victim in the span of six days. It was, however, never wise to appear guilty at a crime scene. Greg checked his expression with alacrity as Sally strode up to him and promptly began recounting everything he already knew.

Greg wished for her to shut up. He also wished for the murderer to jump out of the neatly trimmed hedges, preferably naked and with 'CULPRIT' tattooed to their arse in big, fancy lettering. And, for the love of god, what did a bloke have to do around here to get his dick into someone?

"No suspects, no witnesses, no hard evidence at all, but the M.O fits perfectly", Sally was still prattling off at top speed, making him quite dizzy. "Just like all the previous – ",

"Yes thank you. Would you mind the reporters", he interrupted. "They're already prowling. I don't want them contaminating the crime scene." He was watching her scowl and stalk off with disinterest, feeling rather miserable, when someone spoke right into his ear.

"You're conducting a very sloppy investigation, Detective Inspector, as usual", the someone said. Greg very nearly jumped a foot in surprise, managed to save himself the embarrassment, and turned to find a skinny man in a dramatic coat he hadn't heard arrive standing beside him.

"How did you get in here?"

He was ignored.

"Half the female population of London will die before you lot even find a suspect", the dramatically coated man drawled. Greg felt a mad urge to pinch him. Or swat lightly. He looked as though he might break in half at a touch.

"Who're you?" He questioned instead.

"Sherlock Holmes", was the curt reply, as though it explained perfectly who he was. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, radiated disdain with a vengeance and still managed to look very pretty doing it. Very pretty indeed. Startling green eyes peered at him from under a mop of black hair, and Greg felt as though he were suddenly very naked and very warm. He wouldn't mind getting naked with this bloke.

God, he needed to get laid.

He cleared his throat importantly.

"Well, Sherlock Holmes. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You can't be here, this is a crime scene."

He was ignored again.

"It ought to be illegal, this level of stupidity", Sherlock Holmes insulted, looking scornfully into the distance at the opposite wall and sticking his lovely nose in the air with pompous grandeur. Greg thought his voice ought to be illegal. "This case is so simple, it's boring. Don't bother questioning her family and colleagues, you should know by now it doesn't amount to anything at all. This guy obviously poses as a one night stand. They pick him up, they have sex and he kills them intimately in their own homes. Obviously handsome – that's seems a favorable trait for pulling potential sex partners, and he does it brilliantly. Very powerful too, judging by the marks on their hips and their throats. You'd want to bed him. I suggest you don't."

There was a pause while Greg stared. And briefly wondered if anyone's hair could curl that way naturally. He had half a mind to ask.

"There's a sex club", Sherlock Holmes announced nonchalantly and turned to him. Lestrade aspirated. Sherlock Holmes paid no heed to this unattractive choking, for which he was vaguely thankful, and grabbed his hand instead, which induced some further aspirating. Sherlock Holmes ignored that as well, and was now scrawling an address onto his palm with a sharpie he seemed to have conjured from inside his sleeve.

"Very expensive, very secretive", he said as the DI tried his hardest not to squirm. His palm was ticklish, and the annoyed look Sherlock Holmes shot him was uncalled for.

He was also wondering if he was being propositioned.

"It's where he finds prey."

Oh.

"They probably won't cooperate with you – bad for business, this whole murdering fiasco. I suggest you scour every bit of it anyway, undercover of course – only common sense. He killed last night, there's no reason why he won't kill today. Remember, handsome, powerful in physique, quite demented, not quite as idiotic as you lot."

Lestrade struggled to collected his scattered and barely stirring wits. "You know this how?"

Sherlock Holmes put on a pout of irritated scorn, and hence proceeded to look incredible. "Anyone with the tiniest bit of detective skills would."

"And if you've got what little brains I somehow manage to believe you do", he said, suddenly very sincere in a slightly alarming manner, leaning to touch Lestrade's arm, "you'll check out this lead."

Lestrade wanted to say something smart, but only barely managed a raised eyebrow. Sherlock Holmes emitted an irritated sigh, withdrew, twirled, and strode away with the haughtiness that could rival a peacock's. Lestrade watched him leave, and then encouraged his very frustrated and quite interested prick to stand down.

"Who was that?" Sally had wandered back again. 

"No one", he replied, perhaps a tad too hastily. "We're going to a sex club", he then declared, with all the propriety that sentence could manage.

***

The day had proceeded better than he had expected it to, despite the fact that he now had the address of a sex club printed onto his skin with a sharpie that clung no matter how hard he scrubbed, and he had nearly scrubbed his skin off. It probably wouldn't fade for the rest of the week. Also, the said sex club had him hornier than ever. And he seemed to have lost his mobile phone somewhere along the way.

But on the bright side of things, he had been greeted in his office by a box of glorious downy doughnuts sitting on his desk. He disregarded suspicion and munched away happily, and it made his paperwork only half as bad. He hadn't heard from his wife all day. All was well.

If he could only remember where he'd left his phone, all would be almost perfect.

He had just stuffed the last bit of his doughnut, a rather large portion, into his mouth when his door was scraping across the floor without anyone having knocked. It was Sherlock Holmes again, still clad in his dramatic coat and still looking as though he were Adonis himself, with wind-ruffled hair and lovely eyes and cheekbones, looking entirely too smug as he seated himself across the desk.

"You made the arrest, I see", he said.

Greg swallowed the large mouthful of doughnut with some difficulty. "It wasn't some elaborate set up was it?"

That earned him a smile. A nice, pearly one.

'It might have have been", he said. "Guess you'll never know."

Greg quickly decided he didn't want to.

"You'll have to fill in some paperwork", he told Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his pretty eyes at him.

"No I won't, Lestrade. I'll help you out of tight corners. You'll do the paperwork."

Greg stared at him, and thought he might just do that.

"Why are you here though?" He asked, and felt as though he was asking all the wrong questions.

Sherlock seemed to feel the same way. He stood.

"I get bored. I like it when people die creatively." he said and made to leave. "And also, if you rush home right now, you might just catch your wife with her lover – there's the ticket to leaving."

Greg blinked at him stupidly.

"Oh, and –", Sherlock Holmes stopped mid-turn and twisted around with all the grace of a ballerina. He leaned across the table, and Lestrade almost inhaled his hair. It tickled his face and smelled of apples and cigarette smoke, but Greg was quickly distracted from the imminent need to sneeze when he felt him slip something into his pocket. Sherlock's lingering fingers might have been unnecessary.

"Call me', he whispered, his breath warm against Lestrade's ear. Then he was gone as abruptly as he'd arrived, leaving the very dazed DI alone with his newly found phone. And a very persistent erection.


End file.
